The Souls' Train
by hiddenheadspace
Summary: When Hermione dies, where her soul goes is not what she would have expected from death. Well, it's nice to see Harry again, at least. Warnings inside.


Title: The Souls' Train

Author: hiddenheadspace

Summary: When Hermione dies, where her soul goes is not what she would have expected from death. Well, it's nice to see Harry again, at least.

Warnings: lots of character death, dealt with rather lightly. Relationships that could be interpreted as slash if you want to see them that way (namely ASP/SM, HP/LV, GG/SS). Mentions of GinnyHarry (as their sons are mentioned) and HermioneRon.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author's Note: Sorry about the present tense. It makes the story sound a bit edgy, but it didn't want to be written any other way. I spent ages trying to get each verb into past tense only to have them keep flipping back into present tense as I wrote. And yeah, I realize this is a bit weird, but I like it anyway, so here we are.

The Souls' Train

Hermione blinks and looks around. Where is she? This place is certainly not her bedroom, which is where she had been just a moment ago. Where is Ron?

She is surrounded by a vast blankness that seems to pulsate slightly, as if with concealed energy. What on earth? Has she been transported somewhere?

There haven't been any attacks. Hermione would remember that, unless her memories have been tampered with. No, the last thing she remembers is —

Oh.

She imagines for a moment that she can still hear Ron's wracking sobs as she lay dying in their bed, but no, she is gone now.

Oh, Ron. Her Ron, hair graying but eyes as soft as they had always been when looking at her, all alone now. Pain wells up inside of Hermione, and she might have cried, but she isn't sure she has a body anymore.

Hermione Granger is dead.

She accepts this fact after a moment; she is nothing if not logical. As soon as she does, her empty surroundings start to coalesce, swirling around her like the entrance to the Department of Mysteries had once, so long ago. Colors and shapes begin to form around her, dizzying her and making her feel slightly ill. Who would've thought, she muses, that dead people could become motion-sick?

She blinks once, and then twice, as the room settles down. She is standing in a train, the floor rocking gently with the movement. She glances down at her hands—so she _does_ have a body—and has to stifle a shriek at the smooth, clear skin that she hasn't had for years.

What—? she thinks again, and then again: What?

Being dead is the singularly most befuddling thing that has ever happened to her.

In any case, not only is she standing on a train, she is in front of the door to a compartment. Through the glass she can see a dark-haired young man dozing against the window, which is completely dark, as if it is night outside. Harry? Her heart leaps. It isn't an implausible thought—they're both dead, after all, and —

"Hermione!"

She turns, and Harry is there, her Harry, younger than when he had died, green eyes much brighter than she remembered, and he hugs her, catching her completely by surprise. Harry hardly ever initiated contact. It was just something she'd always known.

He pulls away quickly and flashes a lopsided grin that is achingly familiar. "I missed you," he says. "Death is just boring without someone to nag you about proper research the entire way."

"I—Harry?" she gasps, and even her voice sounds younger. "What—?"

His smile melts into something softer, more understanding. "When you die, your body takes on the body at which they were happiest. For many people, that is their youth, before they have to face too much hardship. Come on—I'll show you around."

He quickly peppers her with questions about everyone left living, Ron in particular. "I've been watching, of course, but there's no sound," he says, and Hermione grows more confused by the moment.

Finally she stops. "Harry, where are we?"

Harry blinks and then flushes. "Oh. Right. Uh, so, when people die, they go on to a place that I call the Dark, because that's what it looks like if you aren't in it. This place, the train, is for people who've messed around with souls, or have some connection to that sort of thing."

She shakes her head desperately, but unwillingly understands. "You mean we can't move on to the afterlife because of—" And decades later, she still automatically lowers her voice. "—the Horcruxes?"

"Yup," Harry says. "Ron will join us too when he dies, and Ginny. And there are loads of people here—Regulus Black and Dumbledore, to start. There are others, too, who've been here for centuries. They've never found a way off."

"That's…" Hermione begins helplessly, and trails off, for once having words fail her.

"It's not so bad," Harry promises. "The company's usually pretty great. Here."

They've been walking this entire time, and it seems that Harry had a destination in mind, for they stop in front of an empty compartment. There is a plaque attached to the door reading neatly _Hermione Jean Granger-Weasley_ and nothing else.

Harry pushes open the door and guides her in gently. The window is pitch-black, much like the strange man's had been when she'd first arrived. She sinks into the seat gratefully, shock beginning to wear off.

Harry holds something out and she reaches to take it automatically.

It's a book.

It's _Hogwarts, a History_, by Bathilda Bagshot. Hermione stares at it as if it is some sort of object from an alien planet.

"You can get whatever you want just by wishing," Harry explains. "Books, music, whatever. You can change the seats into a bed or anything you want. Curtains, whatever. You can wish up a mobile phone, even, but you can't call anyone. Same for weapons—they don't work here. You can use them, but no one gets hurt. You can't break plates, either. You can eat, but you don't have to. Clothes can be whatever you want. Okay?"

"Okay," she says.

Harry studies her face for a moment. "Everyone dies," he says gently. "I'm sorry it was your turn, though. Here."

He turns to the window and presses a hand against it. "You can wish up whatever scene you want." The window turns to the view of the beach from Shell Cottage. "Or you can even call up—"

"Sirius Black," a cool voice says from the door. Hermione's head snaps up in shock. A young man stands there, looking so much like Sirius that she feels like she's dying all over again. But no, the man's hair is straighter and neater; the clothes are sharper, gray eyes lighter in shade.

"Regulus!" Harry says in surprise.

The man inclines his head. "Albus is looking for you. He says that it's important."

"It's always important," Harry grumbles, but stands anyway. "What now? Did the Professors start fighting again?"

"Who are they?" Hermione asks, instinctive curiosity making an appearance through the shocked haze of I'm dead I'm dead Harry's here What now?

Harry grins. "Nicknames. You'll find out soon enough. See you, Hermione."

And then she's alone in her compartment, clutching her favorite book from her teenage years.

"I'm dead," she says aloud, and turns back to the window absent-mindedly.

And nearly screams again.

Sirius Black is reflected in her window, surrounded by darkness, chatting with someone that has to be Lily Potter.

"What?" she says. "I—Sirius?"

"He can't hear you. It's just an image."

Regulus Black has returned, making her jump out of her skin in surprise. "This is what he's doing right now. Or rather, his soul is currently conversing with Lily Potter's. The darkness is because we cannot see however they visualize their surroundings to be. You can also call up images of the living as they truly are."

"Why are you telling me this?" she manages, and her voice sounds odd and twisted up.

He shrugs elegantly. "Potter asked me to keep an eye on you. It's always hard for the new ones the first few days."

"Right," she says faintly.

He eyes her for a moment before sighing. "I'd recommend that you don't watch your funeral. That will send you over the edge if nothing else."

Before she can figure out how to respond to that, he closes the door again, turns, and walks away. Hermione slumps back against the window. Lily is laughing.

She presses her hand against the glass. "Blackness," she says, and the room fades to darkness. She closes her eyes and lets the tears burn her throat at last.

—|—

When she wakes up to semi-darkness, Harry is back, smiling at her sadly.

"Do you want me to introduce you to some people, or would you like to stay here?" he asks quietly.

"Stay, I think," she says after a long silence.

He nods quietly and moves to the window. "Do you mind if I—?"

She shakes her head, curious as to what he would choose to see, but he mumbles it too quietly to be heard.

A messy-haired man is leaning against the window frame, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand and watching the pre-dawn sky. Hermione blinks a few times. Thirty-three years of knowing both of the Potter boys and she still can't tell them apart without the faces.

"Albus," Harry says, catching her confused look.

An owl flaps down towards Albus Severus Potter, who reaches out with a confused expression. Someone else wanders into view of the window, looking sleep-deprived and brushing blonde hair out of his eyes as Albus opens the letter.

Harry waves a hand and the lighting drops again. "It's nice," he says. "For me. Even though Al never knew me, I still got to watch him grow up. Both him and James."

"I'm sorry," Hermione says very quietly.

"Don't be." Harry moves back to sit by her. "They're happy, aren't they?"

She studies him for a moment. His face is open and honest, like she remembers, but there is a shadow to his expression that wasn't there before, and it looks much like the raw pain in her heart.

"Tell me about the other people here," she says, wanting to change the subject.

Harry grins at that. "Well, you've met Regulus, and you know Dumbledore, of course. And logically, the next step up is he of the many monikers himself. You've seen him already, actually. You were looking into his compartment when you first arrived."

Hermione processes this for a moment of mixed horror and surprise. "That was—"

"Yup. I've taken to calling him Tom. Pisses him off."

"Harry!" she says, automatically protesting the language. He laughs.

"Hey, I was twenty-seven when I died, remember? I'm allowed to swear."

"Yes…well…"

"Besides. It's _Tom_. He needs people to swear at him so he won't go egotistical on us again."

Hermione opens her mouth to reply and closes it immediately after, at a total loss, still trying to reconcile the young man she'd seen before with the Voldemort of the wizarding wars.

Harry seems to guess what's confusing her, because he reaches up and brushes his hair away from his forehead. No scar.

No glasses either, for that matter. But Harry had gotten his vision corrected anyway, after the war. The Aurors had required it.

"Our souls are our undamaged, purest selves," Harry says, almost sounding solemn. "Once we destroyed all the Horcruxes, I think he was pieced back together. But he won't talk about it, so I'm not certain.

"…Anyway," Harry continues after another long pause. "There are some other people here that were used for making the Horcruxes. There's also this Albanian bloke wandering around, completely confused and babbling away unintelligibly. Dumbledore tried to explain, but then they ran into Tom… It went badly. Myrtle's not here—ghost, you know?"

She nods unnecessarily.

"Right. There's a few others, too. Herpo the Foul, for one. He keeps to himself, luckily. Not that anyone here actually speaks Ancient Greek. But then there are the _Professors_," Harry almost snickers.

She eyes him warily. "Who?"

"Hogwarts Professors," Harry says. "They don't speak to us much because we don't really share a common language. Old English." He watches her expression. "Can you guess?"

"I—no."

"One of them's Godric Gryffindor," Harry says.

"And Slytherin?" she guesses, remembering Harry's comment about them fighting. "They used soul magic?"

"Well, Slytherin did." Harry rolls his eyes. "Apparently they were trying to find a way to create a bond between them so they could share thoughts. Instead, Slytherin shattered his soul and turned Gryffindor into something like a Horcrux."

"That's…" Hermione trails off, still feeling out of her depth.

Harry examines her expression. "Do you want to rest for a while more?"

"That might be nice," she agrees after a moment.

"All right," Harry says. "I'll be around if you need anything."

He leaves quietly, door sliding shut behind him and leaving Hermione alone in the darkness, feeling lonely but not wanting to talk yet.

When the silence began to make her fidget, she hesitantly reaches out a hand. "I wish for something to read."

Instantaneously, a book appears in her hand, nearly overextending her wrist and making her drop it. Hermione picks it back up with a sigh.

_So You're Dead. Now What? _reads the title. Hermione gives up and decides to go for a walk.

She turns left once out of her compartment and wanders, passing a compartment at one point that seems to contain a lot of smoke and someone shouting. It's labeled _Godric Garrick Gryffindor_ and Hermione speeds up, trying to put distance between it and her.

Eventually her feet slow and she comes to a halt, realizing that she should have tried to keep track of how many cars she had passed through so she would feel less lost. Hermione glances sideways at the empty vending machine in the short, empty corridor that she stands in, between two cars. Finally she sighs and steps forward, deciding to see if there's anyone around to talk to. She reaches the middle of the train car without meeting anyone (the one compartment she'd passed had had its curtains drawn) and is about ready to give up when someone taps her shoulder.

"Hello, Miss Granger," Professor Dumbledore greets her.

"Professor!" she gasps, because nothing, not even seeing Harry, could prepare her for this.

He smiles at her. "I do hope your passing wasn't too difficult, my dear."

"Oh, no," she reassures him, despite the odd choice in conversation. "It was a bad illness, but the end wasn't too terrible. It was strangely peaceful."

"Yes, the last moments of an expected death can be," he says. "I'm glad you did not suffer over-much, after all you did for the world."

Hermione blushes slightly, because even at the age of fifty she still feels like a desperate-to-please student inside some of the time.

"Oh, dear. What are they up to now?" the elderly man says, suddenly looking worriedly over her shoulder. She twists to look. Harry is inside the compartment (which is a few steps ahead), talking animatedly to another man, who, Hermione realizes with a jolt, is the same one she first spied—Tom Riddle. The seats within are strewn with handwritten notes. As she watches, Harry presses a hand against the door to the compartment (and, spotting them watching, gives a quick, cheery wave) before turning to say something to Riddle, who nods. Harry holds a hand out and summons what appears to be a large knife, which he aims at the window.

"Professor? Um…" Hermione asks, understanding the worry from before.

"I'm sure Harry made certain that the rest of the train won't be affected by their experiments," he says, but doesn't sound positive. Catching her bewildered expression, he adds, "The two of them are trying to find a way off the train so we may join the rest of the dead. So far they have been unsuccessful."

As she watches, the saw disappears as soon as it touches the window. Harry sighs and falls back into a chair, crushing a few pieces of parchment. Riddle jots something down on a different set of notes before glancing up and saying something sharply that makes Harry jump up off of the papers.

"…They work together?" she questions at last.

"Indeed they do, and do so rather well," Dumbledore says cheerfully. "I'm very glad that Harry never went dark. Those two could have annihilated the world if they had chosen to. In the same way, it's a tragedy that Tom didn't work for the good of the world instead."

Hermione observes for a moment as Harry rolls his eyes and says something, grinning at some joke that he must have made. Riddle glances up from writing long enough to send him a disparaging look that Harry brushes off with years of practice with Professor Snape.

"Well, if it makes Harry happy," she says at last, feeling rather dubious and wondering what could have ever allowed Harry to move past his hatred of Voldemort long enough to work with him—or, rather, the other way around.

Dumbledore smiles widely and enigmatically, seeming to know something she doesn't (which he probably does, Hermione thinks. The Headmaster always did seem to know everything that happened in his school. Why should that not apply to his death?).

"Well, Miss Granger, I daresay it does."


End file.
